CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Chapter Fourteen

The return to London had done little to ease the tension between Michael and Wanda. If anything, the distance they hoped to escape during their ill-fated honeymoon had only grown wider. Michael’s mood had darkened since they got back, his temper flaring at the slightest inconvenience. Wanda felt as though she was constantly walking on eggshells, her every move scrutinized and criticized by the man she had thought she could start over with.

It was a crisp, gray morning when Wanda decided to make breakfast, hoping to bridge the gap between them with a small act of care. She moved quietly through the kitchen, her movements slow and deliberate as she prepared a simple meal. She hoped that the gesture would soften Michael’s demeanor, even if only a little.

As the smell of eggs and toast filled the air, Wanda set the table carefully, arranging the plates and silverware with a precision that belied her anxiety. She glanced at the clock, her nerves buzzing as she heard Michael’s footsteps descending the stairs.

Michael entered the kitchen, his expression sour as he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly still waking up. Wanda forced a smile, gesturing to the breakfast spread she had laid out. “Good morning,” she said softly, her voice tentative. “I made us breakfast. Thought it might be nice to start the day together.”

Michael barely glanced at the table, his eyes narrowing as he took in the food. He walked past her, grabbing a cup of coffee without a word. Wanda’s smile faltered, but she tried to keep her tone upbeat. “I made your favorite,” she continued, her voice laced with an attempt at cheerfulness. “Scrambled eggs with—”

“Wanda,” Michael interrupted, his tone sharp and dismissive. He set the coffee down with a loud clink, his brow furrowing in annoyance. “I’ve told you a thousand times—I hate overcooked eggs.” He poked at the plate with a fork, his expression turning even more sour. “This is inedible.”

Wanda’s heart sank, the small flicker of hope she had nurtured quickly extinguished. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, her shoulders slumping as she looked at the food. “I thought—”

“You thought wrong,” Michael snapped, pushing the plate away with a huff. “You can’t get anything right, can you? Not even something as simple as making breakfast.”

Wanda bit her lip, fighting back the sting of tears as she took the plate away. She felt small, her efforts dismissed with barely a glance. “I’ll make something else,” she offered, her voice trembling. “Maybe—”

“Don’t bother,” Michael cut her off, his tone cold. “I’ve lost my appetite.” He turned away, his mood already soured by the morning’s interaction. He grabbed his coat from the chair and headed for the door without another word.

Wanda watched him go, the door slamming shut behind him with a force that made her flinch. She stared at the empty kitchen, the silence pressing down on her like a heavy weight. The once warm and inviting space now felt like a battleground, each meal an opportunity for criticism, each gesture a potential misstep.

She sank into a chair, her hands trembling as she tried to steady her breathing. The tears she had been holding back finally spilled over, her sobs quiet but intense. She felt trapped, caught in a cycle of trying to please Michael and failing at every turn. His words cut deeper than she cared to admit, the constant barrage of complaints and harsh judgments wearing her down bit by bit.

Wanda’s thoughts drifted to the baby growing inside her, the small life that had already begun to change everything. She placed a hand on her stomach, the gentle curve a reminder of the future she was fighting for. But as she sat there, alone in the kitchen, she couldn’t help but wonder how she would manage—how she would navigate the increasingly volatile landscape of her relationship with Michael while preparing for the challenges of motherhood.

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The days that followed were no better. Michael’s patience seemed to dwindle with each passing moment, his demeanor growing more unpredictable and harsh. He complained about everything: the state of the house, the meals Wanda cooked, even the way she dressed. It was as if nothing she did was good enough, every effort met with a scowl or a dismissive comment.

One evening, Wanda decided to cook dinner, hoping to recreate a dish she knew Michael once loved—pasta carbonara. She followed the recipe carefully, measuring each ingredient with precision, determined not to make another mistake. As the sauce simmered on the stove, she allowed herself a small sliver of optimism. Maybe this time, things would be different.

Michael arrived home later than usual, his face etched with frustration as he shrugged off his coat. He walked into the kitchen, his expression darkening at the sight of Wanda standing over the stove. The tension in the room was immediate, a heavy, unspoken conflict simmering beneath the surface.

“I made dinner,” Wanda said cautiously, setting the plates on the table. She smiled nervously, gesturing to the meal. “Pasta carbonara, your favorite.”

Michael sat down, his eyes narrowing as he inspected the dish. He took a bite, chewing slowly before setting his fork down with a loud clatter. “This is cold,” he said flatly, pushing the plate away. “And the pasta’s overcooked. What is this, Wanda?”

Wanda’s heart sank, the familiar sting of disappointment washing over her. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice small. “I did my best.”

“Your best?” Michael scoffed, his tone dripping with disdain. “If this is your best, then I’d hate to see your worst.” He stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor as he turned away. “I’m going out. I can’t stay here and eat this garbage.”

Wanda watched him go, the door slamming shut with a finality that made her flinch. She stared at the uneaten food, the weight of Michael’s words pressing down on her like a heavy stone. She felt herself crumbling under the pressure, the constant strain of trying to meet expectations that seemed impossible to satisfy.

She sank into a chair, her hands trembling as she picked at the untouched pasta. The room felt colder, the silence louder in Michael’s absence. Wanda placed a hand over her stomach, a small, instinctive gesture of comfort. She knew she needed to be strong, not just for herself but for the baby. But as the days dragged on, the toll of Michael’s anger and resentment weighed on her, eroding the resolve she had fought so hard to maintain.

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Michael, meanwhile, found solace in his work and the distractions of the city. He buried himself in late nights at the office, business meetings, and drinks with colleagues, anything to avoid the growing discontent he felt whenever he was at home. He knew his behavior towards Wanda was harsh, even unfair, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. Every reminder of Anderson, every sign of Wanda’s pregnancy, only fueled the bitterness he couldn’t shake.

As he sat in his office one evening, Michael stared at the reports on his desk, the numbers blurring together as his mind wandered. He thought about Wanda, about the life they were supposed to be building together. He had wanted this marriage to work, had hoped that they could find a way to be happy. But now, all he felt was frustration and regret.

He poured himself a drink, the burn of the alcohol a brief reprieve from the thoughts that swirled in his mind. He knew he was pushing Wanda away, knew that his anger was only making things worse. But the weight of their unresolved issues, the constant reminders of the past, were too much for him to bear. And as he stared out at the city lights, Michael couldn’t help but wonder if they were already too far gone to find their way back to each other